


Rock Bottom

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2007-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-19 14:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12412035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Lily's reflections on a difficult memory that James can now understand, and how this draws them together.





	Rock Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

It is quiet in the common room tonight. Too quiet. Usually you are annoyed by the constant noise and continual distractions, but tonight the silence itself is the disturbance. It isn’t a comfortable or peaceful silence, but one that screams of pain and agony and unshed tears. 

You sigh as you stare down at the textbook in front of you, willing yourself to finish your essay and keep your eyes away from the couch in front of the fire. The entire room has been stealing glances at him all evening, and you know he doesn’t need that. You know that if you look over the tableau will not have changed: Sirius and Peter will still be playing a game of chess, notably quieter than usual; Remus will still be attempting to do homework, and will probably be having even less luck than you are, and James will still be staring into the fire with unseeing eyes. 

 They are, of course, the reason for the change of atmosphere; the room is quiet because they are quiet. Ever the leaders, ever the planners, ever the instigators, they were the ones that people went to for ideas, for advice, for solutions. Now that life has been turned upside-down for one of them, everyone seems at a loss for what do to and how to act. You are left wishing that you could be blissfully ignorant like the rest of the room, and not understand what he is going through. And so you add empathy to the palpable cloud of emotions hovering over the scene and give up all hope of finishing your essay by tomorrow. 

 

Hours later, the common room is nearly empty and you are still pretending to work, hoping that no one has noticed that you haven’t turned a page in over thirty minutes. Looking up from your table, you see that only five people remain in the room – yourself and the four still seated in front of the fire. As you watch, Remus closes his book and announces his intention to go to bed. Sirius and Peter stand up and agree, all three glancing at James, who makes no movement. 

“C’mon, Prongs,” mutters Sirius, tapping James’ arm and mussing his hair as he heads towards the stairs. 

James looks up at him, but makes no response, ignoring Peter’s sad half-smile. 

Remus squeezes his shoulder and whispers “At least get some sleep, yeah?” earning the tiniest of nods from James, who has returned his gaze to the fire. 

Suddenly you are jealous of the four, of their camaraderie and closeness, and of the fact that they understand each other so much better then your friends understand you. 

 

You sit in silence for a while longer, staring off into space much as James is, lost in your own thoughts and memories. It has been two and a half years. Sometimes it seems that it was only yesterday, and sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago… You take a slow, deep breath. These are not thoughts you want to be having. These are not memories you want to relive. Two and a half years, and you still don’t like to think about it. But now it is inevitable, because you can feel the pain radiating from the boy across the room. Pain that recalls your own from two and a half years ago. Pain that you never really dealt with or worked through, just buried in schoolwork. 

You know what happened to him; the whole school does by now. The marauders have been gone for two days – he for five – their absence could not go unnoticed. And as much as you have despised him, despite everything he has done to you or others, even though this is _James Potter_ of all people, you don’t care anymore. You would not wish this pain on your worst enemy. No one should have to lose a parent. 

 

As you stand up and move quietly to the couch where he still sits, you feel another pang of jealousy at the thought of his friends. They may not have experienced the same loss as he has, but they have supported him and treated him with more understanding than most would. Better than your friends did. They didn’t coddle him, forcing him to eat dinner or go to bed. They didn’t ply him with continuous reminders that ‘it would be good for you to talk about it’. They respected his space and his silence. You wish your friends had done the same for you… 

He sends a wary glance your way as you sit on the couch next to him, but you barely meet his gaze, gently taking his hand and staring into the fire without speaking. You wonder if he was expecting yet another ‘I’m so sorry’ speech. No, you know only too well that that is the last thing he needs. You cannot count the number of now-nameless and faceless apologies you received when your father died. They thought it was the right thing to do, and didn’t know what else to say, how else to offer support; you know that, but it never made you feel better. It never eased the pain or filled the emptiness – it was just one more reminder of what you had lost. You remember wanting to strangle the next person who said ‘I’m sorry’ to you, even if – especially if – it was your best friend. You remember wanting to scream that yes, you knew they were sorry, and damn it, you were sorry, too! Sorry that your father had cancer, something that hardly anyone here understood, sorry that you had had to watch him get sicker and sicker, more and more frail, until he was only a shadow of his former self, and now you’re sorry he’s gone, but it doesn’t change anything! 

Popular James Potter has probably had to endure even more inadequate apologies than you have, you think, though you’re sure that none have come from his friends.

 

You feel increased pressure on the hand holding his, and you squeeze back, hoping it is a sign of his gratitude for your presence. You continue to watch the fire in silence until he clears his throat and shakily murmurs the last two words that you ever expected to come out of his mouth. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You just stare at him. “What?” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats “for the things I said – the way I treated you when…you know… I didn’t know - I didn’t understand what it’s like…” He finally turns and looks at you, his eyes wide. 

“I know,” you whisper back, feeling for once that the apology is acceptable. “I wish you didn’t have to know. I wish you didn’t understand.” 

He is looking away again, leaning forward with his chin on his hand, but he nods, biting his lips. 

Taking his other hand in both of yours, you move closer to him and put one hand on his back, around his shoulders. He pulls his hand from yours, suddenly covering his face, and you begin to slowly move your hand across his back, pulling his body closer to yours as he begins to cry. It is quiet at first, but then the dam bursts and he is bawling onto your shoulder, heart wrenching sobs of agony, emptiness, desperation… Before you know it, you are awkwardly sprawled across his lap, his arms tight around your waist and his head buried in your shoulder and your hair, and you are crying yourself as you silently comfort him; crying the tears of two and half years of denial; two and a half years of trying to forget instead of trying to remember; two and a half years of just surviving instead of living… 

 

Silence reigns again as you both run out of tears. Still, he holds you tight, and you gently run your fingers through his hair and across his back. His glasses are streaked and smudged when he finally sits up, and you manage a small smile as you put them in your lap and move your hands to wipe the tears from his face. He returns the favor, and you’re not sure who is comforting whom anymore. Your hands continue to touch his face and hair while he stares at you and does the same. When he sighs and closes his eyes for a moment you stand up and place a hand on either side of his face, whispering that he needs to sleep. You smile as he nods and lies down on the couch, clearly having no intention of moving. Retrieving your wand from the table where you left your books so long ago, you summon his pillow and blanket from his dorm and carry them to the couch, tucking him in as if he were a baby. He is already half asleep, but reaches for your hand as you turn to leave. 

“Stay,” he whispers, pleading with his eyes. 

You gaze back at him for a moment before nodding and crawling beneath the blanket to lie next to him on the cramped couch. He falls asleep with his arms tightly around you, clinging to you desperately as a child sleeping in a strange room clings to a favorite toy…

 

You awaken to the first rays of sunlight playing across your face. Though your face is swollen from crying, you feel strangely at peace. James is still asleep, but you turn slowly in his arms, looking into his face. You ponder the boy lying next to you; you have never really hated him, just hated his immaturity and inability to see beyond himself. You could always tell he was a good person underneath it all, and maybe that is why his actions have always frustrated you. Now you have both lost so much – you a father, he a mother – but in that loss you have seemingly found each other. 

He wakes up at this point in your musings and squints at you through puffy, red eyes. Neither of you speaks, but there is no awkwardness in the silence; it is a marked contrast to the silence of last night. He moves his hand to stroke your hair, then smiles, and finally: 

“Lily,” he says. You have never been ‘Lily’ to him before. “Thanks…” 

You return the smile. “Anytime, James.” 

And you mean it. He pulls you into a warm embrace again, and you realize that this is a turning point. You have met each other at rock bottom. There is no place to go but up. You are finally ready to heal, and maybe you can from here, with him. Maybe this is the start of something new, something better. Maybe in the aftermath of death, you can keep living… 


End file.
